


Willow Not Reed

by compo67



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Hogsmeade, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sex Worker Dean, Wizarding World, Young Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3536642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years ago, John and Mary Winchester disappeared on assignment in the Muggle World. Search parties yielded nothing. Forced to drop out of his first year at Hogwarts, Dean has supported himself and Sam by doing sex work in Hogsmeade. He isn't ashamed of what he does by any means; it's a living and it's helping buy supplies for Sam's first year--two weeks away. </p><p>Less than an hour after purchasing a wand for Sam, a customer knocks at their door. </p><p>News has arrived from the Muggle side of London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Willow Not Reed

“I want to study Muggles.”

This is the second preposterous thing to leap from Sam’s mouth in the span of two hours.

The first was a completely ridiculous complaint about the wand Ollivander sold him, claiming that it should be made of willow, not reed. Reed, according to Sam, makes no sense. Everything else about his wand—which will remain in its box for the next two weeks, until the term starts—matches up, save for the wood. Of course, Ollivander wouldn’t hear any protest, all he did was smile and cackle his usual line—the wand chooses the wizard.

At ten and a quarter inches, with dragon heartstring, and a little over six galleons, Dean thinks it’s just fine. It better last. Ollivander certainly isn’t cheap.

“Muggles are stupid,” Dean asserts. He shoves open the door to their cottage, a bag of groceries in his arms. One well-timed thrust of his right shoulder and the door gives with a squeak.

“You listen to their music all the time.”

“Yeah? Well that’s different.”

“Tell me why I can’t,” Sam insists, skipping past their usual squabble and going for a direct approach. This is a sign of his age. Twelve is such a pain in the ass.

They are down six galleons from the wand, fifteen galleons from the three standard, required robes, and ten sickles from the cauldron and other supplies Sam desperately had to have as they shopped for school supplies. Sam would have used Dean’s old robes, but hemming them wasn’t worth it; Sam still swum in the one Dean tried to fit to him.

In accordance to the school’s funding for certain students in need, Sam’s first term is covered in full; however, some payment will be expected at the start of his second term. That responsibility will lie on Dean. He has one term to save up one hundred galleons. Luckily, this summer has been profitable, though hard on his back. If only so many of his customers could think of different positions, ones other than missionary fucking with their robes hoisted up, then Dean would be set.

Whatever. Dean has twenty galleons in reserve for next term. As long as he can buy Sam’s textbooks used, he can put away ten more.

“You’re eating too much.” Dean mutters as he puts away packages and parcels wrapped up from The Magic Neep. Their parents were British citizens, but raised in the States until they received their letters. Among other things, this left their children with a mix of accents. Dean can switch his on and off at will. He cranks up his British, still amused by the sound of it. “Not enough for you that I cook, clean, and care for you, innit? Now you have to go about asking shit like that when I _know_ you’re going to do what you want no matter what the hell comes out of my mouth.”

Their cottage is wedged between two larger cottages, sort of an afterthought in its construction. The wizard on the left of them is never home unless it’s the third Sunday in June and then he’s crowing on about potions and charms. Dean doesn’t mind him. It’s the lady on the right he minds. She’s a stuck up witch, constantly checking in on them and making jabs at what Dean does to pay for groceries. Her façade of caring was transparent to Dean when he was ten years old. That was back when John was around.

“So does that mean I can?” Standing on a stool, putting away a package of biscuits in the top cupboard, Sam has brightened. “You’ll let me then?”

Feeding a twelve year old boy is like pitching galleons into the fireplace. That package of biscuits is already open, with two missing, and it hasn’t been inside the house for more than five minutes. Dean is partially sending Sam to school so they can try their luck at feeding him.

“I didn’t say yes or no,” Dean murmurs. He leans against the counter, facing towards the street and looking out their kitchen window, which is level with the sidewalk running up to their door. “I just don’t know why anyone would want to study Muggles. You know that means you’d have to get close to one, right? That’s not worth it, I say, but again, since when do you listen?”

Sam was never a child who took what little allowance Dean was able to give him and spent it at Zonko’s, like all normal children. He never even splurged at Honeyduke’s when there were a few extra knuts to go around. Small and shy for his age, Sam instead preferred to spend his coin at Tomes and Scrolls. Sam’s room is crammed with proof of his affinity for reading and purchasing the heaviest tomes he could find. Dean can count the number of books he owns; Sam would have lost track a long time ago, had he not started a detailed inventory on a scroll the length of their kitchen table.

Sam leaps off the stool and launches himself at Dean, wrapping him in a hug. Eyes scrunched close in joy, he squeaks out, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Okay, okay. Sheesh.”

“Can I have some egg on toast?”

“You just ate two biscuits, Sam.”

“And?”

“Well, let the groceries at least figure out their new home before you cram them into your face. Go. If you put stuff away I’ll have to go back out again.” He gives Sam a playful shove. “Maybe you can start packing your rocks.”

“They’re called geodes,” Sam snips, lips pursed. “And they’re fascinating formations of…”

“Ah, ah.” Dean holds his hand up. “There’s no learning in this house from now until the end of time. Take your facts and knowledge somewhere else, buddy.”

“But…”

“Go. Go do something kids your age do.”

“Like what?”

“Listen to this… ‘like what’ he says. Jeez, I don’t know, go steal something. Go throw your rocks at Hubert Watson’s cat.”

Eyes wide, Sam gasps. “I would never do that, Dean!”

Dean presses them nose to nose, leaning down, reveling in his advantage of both height and age. “Shoo, Sammy. Get out of my kitchen before _I_ go throw rocks at Watson’s cat.”

Those same hazel eyes flit over to the kitchen window. Dean is about to complain—how dare Sam look away in the middle of his older brother’s threat—but he catches a glimpse of the spectacle. Familiar black robes swish past the tiny, smudged window.

“I thought you didn’t have any customers today,” Sam grouses. His demeanor transforms entirely; he pulls away from Dean.

Worse than feeding Sam is putting up with his mood swings. He knows what Dean does. He knows that it keeps them fed, clothed, and housed. They’re not swimming in galleons—or even knuts for that matter—but the roof was leaking at the start of the summer and now it’s not. Dean had enough to pay to fix it, one way or another.

Dean’s shoulders bristle at the intrusion on their time together and Sam’s reaction. Nothing pays as well as this. There isn’t a drop of shame to Dean about what he does. It has been done in Hogsmeade and all over the wizard world for centuries, even if there is no mention of it in textbooks or lore. They may be magic, but the people in their world and in their village are flesh and blood.

“I don’t.” Moving past Sam, Dean runs a hand through his hair, fixing it to be more formal and put together. He adjusts his robes, which are technically John’s robes and still loose in the shoulders. “I told him not to come by until Tuesday.”

Customers are never seen without an appointment. He has a little brother to raise. Sam has been reading and casting minor spells since he was three, but he is still a kid. And no matter how much Sam protests, he still requires the structure and stability of a good home.

“I’m going to my room.” Sam grabs the package of biscuits from the cupboard, bounding up and down the stool.

“Good idea,” Dean huffs. “I don’t have to tell you to save room for dinner.”

From the hallway leading to their rooms, Sam shouts, “Maybe if we ate more than egg and toast I wouldn’t be so hungry!”

 “Oh yeah, that’s a god damn wonderful topic of conversation to have right now, Sam!”

“You’re welcome!”

Sam’s door slams hard enough to cause a picture frame by the front door to rattle. That was adolescent craziness in zero to sixty. As Dean unlocks the door, he briefly thinks back to the days when Sam was a pink, round thing in diapers, incapable of speech and therefore incapable of arguing. Those were good days.

Soured by this turn of events, Dean yanks the front door open.

“What,” he barks at the figure in the doorway. “This better be good.”

Julius—July—Whipple is out of breath, having run all the way from Dervish and Banges to Dean’s front door. Dean has seen the man wheeze on several occasions, but it’s always been at a horizontal angle. He can’t have _ran_ here just to stick his…

“Post,” July blurts out, leaning against the doorway. His black hair is wild over his shoulders. For someone trim in the waist, July has no endurance. “Post has a-arrived for you.”

“Thanks.” There’s no need to be nice to July, or even polite. He gets what he wants when he’s here. Dean consistently delivers, even when July is too rough, too hard, and too fast. “But unless the postmaster has decided to sod off and not do his job, I think I’m fucking capable of waiting for the post, July.”

The man standing in front of him is hardly his best customer. Dean prefers not to think about his best customer at all, especially on his day off.

Bushy eyebrows furrow. “It’s from _London_.”

Arms crossed over his chest, Dean remains unimpressed. He contemplates slamming the door in July’s face. If he’s lucky, he’ll catch a few fingers in there.

Before Dean can follow through, July heaves one last piece of news that actually matters.

“Muggle-side London.”

Dean slams the door in July’s face anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> oh my god, what have i done?!
> 
> i'm gonna be straight with y'all: i have never written anything for HP. i didn't even read past book four. fortunately, i have friends who are dedicated fans. but if you see something amiss, please point it out (nicely! be tender with me, this is my first) so i can improve. this will be Sam and Dean-centric, with Wincest later. 
> 
> i'm still in disbelief that i wrote this. huh.


End file.
